Little Black Book: Found

Anny had tapped the stop button instead of the snooze, so she hadn’t been able to pull herself out of the dream. She had been walking down a fluorescent hallway, it’s fuchsia light forcing her to squint as she passed through a door into a blinding - what - emptiness? She couldn’t remember. Suddenly, she was in that one dream place, which she had visited many nights. It was as if she were in her own terrarium, tall and narrow, where she climbed up a lush, tree-carpeted cliff.

When Anny reached the summit, she confidently dove off it’s rocky top into a clean, silky, crystalline river. Her body splashed into the water, sending foamy curls of waves rolling up the sides of the glass walls. Walls? No, now it was a building, not made of glass but of gilded bricks, which rose out of the water. She blinked thickly and found herself in a shallow golden rowboat. She rowed steadily, but the oars made no sound. The boat slipped across the surface of the river, until - reality. The reality which meant she would be late and possibly fired if she didn’t immediately wrench herself into a vertical position.

“No!” Anny gasped and crashed into the bathroom. Brush teeth, hair up, clothes on, only the necessities. She bolted down the mottled concrete steps, her stomps echoing through the stairwell. It doesn’t matter, she thought. Everyone else is awake or at work, like you should be. It’s fine. I’ll take the -

Her boot skidded across the building entryway, Anny’s ankle buckling and her body smashing into the beige, metal mailboxes that lined the hall, their slots spitting up junk pamphlets like sour soup. “Ow!” she spurted fiercely and then continued to mutter a string of expletives while grasping her scraped, bleeding elbow.

She growled in frustration at the little black book that was lying across the hallway, a dusty boot print on its inky surface. “Jerk!” she roared, more toward herself than the innocent piece of lost property. She glanced around the hallway, mustering a half smile to greet the notebook’s concerned parent. No one. Great. I’ll figure it out later, she complained as she nestled the notebook into her bag.

“Little Black Book Found,” the poster read, along with a picture of the book and Anny’s phone number. The printed picture of the book looked more like a black rectangle, not a notebook, like a window exposing the void of space, the stars being too far away or too dim to see. The poster had been in the building for a week and a day with no luck, the book resting untouched on Anny’s desk. Sitting stiffly on the black, hard balcony Saturday afternoon, she sipped coffee and glanced back and forth at the book through the open window. It looks important, she thought, annoyed. But no one has even called to ask. Is it rude to open it?

Sam had said that it was private, but that maybe it was acceptable to look after a few weeks, if nobody called. A few weeks? What if it’s something really important? What if there’s an “if found, return to” number? Anny felt ridiculous. She wanted to be relieved of this problem, and additionally her ankle and elbow were still sore. She carefully climbed back into the kitchen and set down her coffee cup.

She parted the cover and peered into the opening. Black scribbles in small, neat stacks. Addresses and phone numbers, Anny discovered as she flipped through the buff, lined pages. No instructions for it being found, but this was promising! she thought. She dialed the first number. It rang but there was no answer. She tried the next. Again, no answer. The book was a third full, with three contacts a page. So, what maybe 100 calls give or take? Anyway, it’ll probably be the fastest way to find the owner, she thought. As it was Saturday and she wanted to move on with her life, Anny had decided. Worth a try.

“Anny, open the door,” Sam’s muffled voice demanded. “Is something wrong?”

Anny blinked hard and her head wobbled toward the sound, her eyes drifting up to meet the doorway. Her eyebrows furrowed as she murmured what was supposed to be a loud, coherent word, but her voice left her lips as a whimper. She glanced down at her own hand holding the phone. The little black book was open on the table. Have I been dialing? For how long?

“Anny!” Sam huffed.

Her vision brightened to the present and the room came into focus. “Yes!” she mustered enough mind to yell. “Yes, I’m coming.”

As she placed the phone on the table, she noticed she had written the initials “NA” next to the phone numbers she had dialed that afternoon. “No answer.” She took a few hurried steps toward the door but then shuffled back to tuck the book into the back of her jeans, underneath her teal, knit sweater. She whisked open the door with an attempt at a relaxed smile.

“You okay?” asked Sam, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I was sleeping,” Anny muttered, grabbing one of the two bags of groceries Sam held. She winced and switched to her uninjured elbowed arm. “Were you waiting a long time?”

“I was a little worried,” Sam gave Anny a peck on her cheek and a squeeze of her waist. “It took you a while, that’s all.”

“Sorry. Um, I’m going to go the bathroom, then I’ll help you unpack.”

Anny shut the door bolt and sat on the closed toilet seat. She pulled the little black book out from behind her back and flipped through the soft pages. There was “NA,” written next to over half of the phone numbers. She peered over the sink and caught her own eyes in the mirror. You’re tired, she told herself. It’s good I guess. You can finish it tomorrow. To be done with it. She jumped at the tapping on the door.

“Are we still going to dinner?”

“Of course,” Anny said too politely as she flushed the toilet. She pushed the book back into her jeans. “Be right there.”

Anny was half dozing off and the movie was nearly finished when she noticed the missing sensation. Her back was resting cozily against the couch. Sam shook as Anny jolted upward. She tried unconvincingly to slow down her movements as she searched her jeans, her bag, the couch, the floor, and finally the hallway. The book wasn’t there.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s my, um, my phone. I think I dropped it. Somewhere along the way to the restaurant. I’m going to go look for it.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll turn up. Here, I’ll come with you.”

“No!” Anny said too forcefully. “I mean, no, you’ve had a long day. I’m fine. I could use the fresh air anyway.”

The little black book lay open, its back cover resting against a square, caution-yellow pillar on the subway platform. It may as well have been a beacon. “Yes!” Anny exclaimed as she jogged toward the book. The book’s pages were hovering in the night breeze, as if to wave hello and say, oh good, you found me. Anny sighed loudly and scooped it up. Well, you looked unharmed. And now, that’s it, Anny scolded. Tomorrow I’m finishing the numbers and you’re going home. She laughed quietly at herself, Great. Now I’m talking to the book like it’s alive or a lost dog. Tomorrow. That’s it.

“Hey look,” Sam noted, holding the book open the next morning while sitting at breakfast. “You know, I’m glad you started calling earlier. May as well.”

Anny swore she had put it in her bag the night before. “Yeah, I’m going to finish today,” she stated simply as she sipped her coffee.

“Should be pretty easy. Only one page left.”

Anny coughed out particles of coffee and disbelief, as well as a “Yeah” and a “Went down the wrong pipe” to convince Sam she wasn’t choking from fear. She pretended to calmly turn back to the page from where she thought she had left off. It was true. There they were: “NAs.” No answer. Little letters written next to each of the numbers, save the last page.

“Are you going to call now? I’m curious,” Sam grinned.

Three numbers left. Anny picked up the phone and dialed. No answer. “You know what,” she said, “I’m going to skip the second to last and do the last one first. For fun.”

“Yeah, why not,” laughed Sam, sipping coffee and staring back out the window.

She dialed. Click. “Hello?” Anny stammered. An answer. She ran into the bedroom and closed the door. She heard a faint “Hey” from Sam.

Weary and confused, Anny moved her face close to the silent, silver surface of the mirror hanging over the dresser. She studied what she saw. She didn’t look tired. She looked young. Younger than she remembered being.

“So, I found the owner,” Anny said as she plopped down opposite Sam. “We had a conversation on the phone.”

“Who was it?”

“I had a conversation.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“Well, the funny thing is. It was with myself. The owner was, is, me.”

Sam scoffed, “No, are you serious? It must be someone who sounded like you, that's all. Come on.” Sam paused and then added, “Look, it's okay. What did this person say? Can you return the book?”

“No. She said to keep it. She said I should open the door.”

Sam shrugged. “Weird.”

“I'll go see if there's someone there,” Anny whispered. The hallway glowed a sickly gray-green. Hello? No one. She closed the door quietly and rested her head on the doorframe. It was hard, but it felt reassuring - real. She went to the kitchen table and stared at the book. The little black book was hushed and still, pitch-black as midnight. Like it was hiding. Or sleeping.

“So look, I got to run, but we’ll figure it out later. Don’t worry,” Sam said, kissing Anny on the forehead and opening the door to leave, nearly stumbling over what was resting on the doormat.

Tossing Anny the package, wrapped in black paper and white string, Sam smiled, “Hey, did you see this? It was sitting outside the door. There’s a note. Maybe from the lady? Looks nice.”

The package was heavy. The small, blank envelope wasn’t sealed. Anny pulled out the crisp, white card inside. In small, hand-written script it said, “Thank you for finding me.” She thought she could have been wrong, but it looked like, It’s my hand-writing. Anny grabbed a small knife from the kitchen. Well, this is it. She untied the string and sliced the black paper carefully. It unfolded and she dropped the knife. “No,” she exhaled.

It was money.

Anny slowly began counting. She made stacks to keep track. Wait! She stopped counting. She sprang up and grabbed the little black book resting on the kitchen table. She had forgotten. The last number. She dialed it frantically. Come on, pick up.

Click.

I'm sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service, please hang up and try yourself again later.

Anny looked at the phone, the book, and the stacks of notes with a new clarity. Looking at them from across the apartment, it was all too much to take in. But how much? She thought. She began counting again. When she finished, Anny put her head in her hands and wept.

Twenty thousand dollars.

As Anny sat on the black metal balcony overlooking the street, she held the little black book close to her heart. The book and her heart seemed to pulse together, sharing the same beat. On the brick sidewalk below and beyond, reality appeared normal. The passersby, a bird’s distant song, orange leaves fluttering against autumn’s occasional cold gusts. Everything seemed real, but it wasn't. Not anymore.

My dreams, she thought. Now what?